PROPHET 


Gibran 


892.78 

GA47 

P965 

1923 


r 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY 

LIBRARY 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/prophet01gibr 


THE  PROPHET 


“ His  power  came  from  some  great  reser- 
voir of  spiritual  life  else  it  could  not  have 
been  so  universal  and  so  potent,  but  the 
majesty  and  beauty  of  the  language  with 
which  he  clothed  it  were  all  his  own!’ 

— Claude  Bragdon 

THE  BOOKS  OF 

KAHLIL  GIBRAN 

The  Madman  • igi8 
Twenty  Drawings  • igig 
The  Forerunner  • igzo 
The  Prophet  ■ ig2^ 

Sand  and  Foam  • 7926 
fesus  the  Son  of  Man  • /92S 
The  Earth  Gods  • ig^i 
The  Wanderer  • ig^2 
The  Garden  of  the  Prophet  • ig^^ 
Prose  Poems  • 79^^ 


PUBLISHED  BY  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


THE  PROPHET 


BY 

KAHLIL  GIBRAN 


NEW  YORK  • ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  • mcmxliv 


Copyright  iQ2j  by  Kahlil  Gibran 
All  rights  reserved.  No  part  of  this  book  may  be  reproduced 
in  any  form  without  permission  in  writing  from  the  pub- 
lisher, except  by  a reviewer  who  may  quote  brief  passages 
or  reproduce  not  more  than  three  illustrations  in  a review 
to  be  printed  in  a magazine  or  newspaper. 

Published  September 
Reprinted  thirty-nine  times 
Forty -fir St  printing.  May  1^44. 


THIS  BOOK  HAS  BEEN  PKODUCED 
IN  EUEE  COMPLIANCE 
WITH  ALL  GOVERNMENT  REGULATIONS 
FOR  THE  CONSERVATION  OF  PAPER,  METAL, 
AND  OTHER  ESSENTIAL  MATERIALS 


O /'i 


Manufachired  in  the  United  States  of  America 


■ii-r-i'l 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Coming  of  the  Ship 

7 

On  Love 

15 

On  Marriage 

19 

On  Children 

21 

On  Giving 

23 

On  Eating  and  Drinking 

27 

On  Work 

31 

On  Joy  and  Sorrow 

35 

On  Houses 

37 

On  Clothes 

41 

On  Buying  and  Selling 

43 

On  Crime  and  Punishment 

45 

On  Laws 

51 

On  Freedom 

55 

On  Reason  and  Passion 

57 

On  Pain 

60 

On  Self-Knowledge 

62 

On  Teaching 

64 

On  F riendship 

66 

On  Talking 

68 

On  Time 

70 

On  Good  and  Evil 

72 

On  Prayer 

76 

On  Pleasure 

79 

On  Beauty 

83 

On  Religion 

87 

On  Death 

90 

The  Farewell 

92 

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THE  PROPHET 


THE  TWELVE  ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN  THIS  VOLUME  ARE  RE- 
PRODUCED FROM  ORIGINAL 
DRAWINGS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


A L MUSTAFA,  the  chosen  and  the  be- 
loved, who  was  a dawn  unto  his  own  day, 
had  waited  twelve  years  in  the  city  of 
Orphalese  for  his  ship  that  was  to  return 
and  bear  him  back  to  the  isle  of  his  birth. 

And  in  the  twelfth  year,  on  the  seventh 
day  of  lelool,  the  month  of  reaping,  he 
climbed  the  hill  without  the  city  walls 
and  looked  seaward;  and  he  beheld  his 
ship  coming  with  the  mist. 

Then  the  gates  of  his  heart  were  flung 
open,  and  his  joy  flew  far  over  the  sea. 
And  he  closed  his  eyes  and  prayed  in  the 
silences  of  his  soul. 

But  as  he  descended  the  hill,  a sadness 
came  upon  him,  and  he  thought  in  his 
heart : 

How  shall  I go  in  peace  and  without 
sorrow^  Nay,  not  without  a wound  in 
the  spirit  shall  I leave  this  city. 


7 


Long  were  the  days  of  pain  I have  spent 
within  its  walls,  and  long  were  the  nights 
of  aloneness;  and  who  can  depart  from 
his  pain  and  his  aloneness  without  regret^ 

Too  many  fragments  of  the  spirit  have 
I scattered  in  these  streets,  and  too  many 
are  the  children  of  my  longing  that  walk 
naked  among  these  hills,  and  I cannot 
withdraw  from  them  without  a burden 
and  an  ache. 

It  is  not  a garment  I cast  olf  this  day, 
but  a skin  that  I tear  with  my  own  hands. 

Nor  is  it  a thought  I leave  behind  me, 
but  a heart  made  sweet  with  hunger  and 
with  thirst. 

Yet  I cannot  tarry  longer. 

The  sea  that  calls  all  things  unto  her 
calls  me,  and  I must  embark. 

For  to  stay,  though  the  hours  burn 
in  the  night,  is  to  freeze  and  crystallize 
and  be  bound  in  a mould. 

Fain  would  I take  with  me  all  that  is 
here.  But  how  shall  1“? 

A voice  cannot  carry  the  tongue  and 


8 


the  lips  that  gave  it  wings.  Alone  must 
it  seek  the  ether. 

And  alone  and  without  his  nest  shall 
the  eagle  fly  across  the  sun. 

Now  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  he  turned  again  towards  the  sea,  and 
he  saw  his  ship  approaching  the  harbour, 
and  upon  her  prow  the  mariners,  the  men 
of  his  own  land. 

And  his  soul  cried  out  to  them,  and  he 
said : 

Sons  of  my  ancient  mother,  you  riders 
of  the  tides. 

How  often  have  you  sailed  in  my 
dreams.  And  now  you  come  in  my  awak- 
ening, which  is  my  deeper  dream. 

Ready  am  I to  go,  and  my  eagerness 
with  sails  full  set  awaits  the  wind. 

Only  another  breath  will  I breathe  in 
this  still  air,  only  another  loving  look  cast 
backward, 

And  then  I shall  stand  among  you,  a 
seafarer  among  seafarers. 


Q 


/ 

And  you,  vast  sea,  sleepless  mother, 

Who  alone  are  peace  and  freedom  to 
the  river  and  the  stream, 

Only  another  winding  will  this  stream 
make,  only  another  murmur  in  this  glade. 

And  then  shall  I come  to  you,  a bound- 
less drop  to  a boundless  ocean. 

And  as  he  walked  he  saw  from  afar  men 
and  women  leaving  their  fields  and  their 
vineyards  and  hastening  towards  the  city 
gates. 

And  he  heard  their  voices  calling  his 
name,  and  shouting  from  field  to  field  tell- 
ing one  another  of  the  coming  of  his  ship. 

And  he  said  to  himself : 

Shall  the  day  of  parting  be  the  day  of 
gathering? 

And  shall  it  be  said  that  my  eve  was  in 
truth  my  dawn? 

And  what  shall  I give  unto  him  who 
has  left  his  plough  in  midfurrow,  or  to 
him  who  has  stopped  the  wheel  of  his 
winepress? 

10 


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S‘ 


Shall  my  heart  become  a tree  heavy- 
laden  with  fruit  that  I may  gather  and 
give  unto  them? 

And  shall  my  desires  flow  like  a foun- 
tain that  I may  fill  their  cups? 

Am  I a harp  that  the  hand  of  the  mighty 
may  touch  me,  or  a flute  that  his  breath 
may  pass  through  me? 

A seeker  of  silences  am  I,  and  what 
treasure  have  I found  in  silences  that  I 
may  dispense  with  confidence? 

If  this  is  my  day  of  harvest,  in  what 
fields  have  I sowed  the  seed,  and  in  what 
unremembered  seasons? 

If  this  indeed  be  the  hour  in  which 
I lift  up  my  lantern,  it  is  not  my  flame  that 
shall  burn  therein. 

Empty  and  dark  shall  I raise  my  lan- 
tern. 

And  the  guardian  of  the  night  shall 
fill  it  with  oil  and  he  shall  light  it 
also. 

These  things  he  said  in  words.  But 
much  in  his  heart  remained  unsaid.  For 


11 


he  himself  could  not  speak  his  deeper  se- 
cret. 

And  when  he  entered  into  the  city  all 
the  people  came  to  meet  him,  and  they 
were  crying  out  to  him  as  with  one 
voice. 

And  the  elders  of  the  city  stood  forth 
and  said  : 

Go  not  yet  away  from  us. 

A noontide  have  you  been  in  our  twi- 
light, and  your  youth  has  given  us  dreams 
to  dream. 

No  stranger  are  you  among  us,  nor 
a guest,  but  our  son  and  our  dearly  be- 
loved. 

Suffer  not  yet  our  eyes  to  hunger  for 
your  face. 

And  the  priests  and  the  priestesses  said 
unto  him : 

Let  not  the  waves  of  the  sea  separate 
us  now,  and  the  years  you  have  spent  in 
our  midst  become  a memory. 

You  have  walked  among  us  a spirit, 


12 


and  your  shadow  has  been  a.  light  upon 
our  faces. 

Much  have  we  loved  you.  But  speech- 
less was  our  love,  and  with  veils  has  it 
been  veiled. 

Yet  now  it  cries  aloud  unto  you,  and 
would  stand  revealed  before  you. 

And  ever  has  it  been  that  love  knows 
not  its  own  depth  until  the  hour  of  separa- 
tion. 

And  others  came  also  and  entreated 
him.  But  he  answered  them  not.  He 
only  bent  his  head;  and  those  who  stood 
near  saw  his  tears  falling  upon  his  breast. 

And  he  and  the  people  proceeded  to- 
wards the  great  square  before  the  temple. 

And  there  came  out  of  the  sanctuary  a 
woman  whose  name  was  Almitra.  And 
she  was  a seeress. 

And  he  looked  upon  her  with  exceeding 
tenderness,  for  it  was  she  who  had  first 
sought  and  believed  in  him  when  he  had 
been  but  a day  in  their  city. 


13 


And  she  hailed  him,  saying : 

Prophet  of  God,  in  quest  of  the  uttei- 
most,  long  have  you  searched  the  dis- 
tances for  your  ship. 

And  now  your  ship  has  come,  and  you 
must  needs  go. 

Deep  is  your  longing  for  the  land  of 
your  memories  and  the  dwelling  place  of 
your  greater  desires;  and  our  love  would 
not  bind  you  nor  our  needs  hold  you. 

Yet  this  we  ask  ere  you  leave  us,  that 
you  speak  to  us  and  give  us  of  your  truth. 

And  we  will  give  it  unto  our  children, 
and  they  unto  their  children,  and  it  shall 
not  perish. 

In  your  aloneness  you  have  watched 
with  our  days,  and  in  your  wakefulness 
you  have  listened  to  the  weeping  and  the 
laughter  of  our  sleep. 

Now  therefore  disclose  us  to  ourselves, 
and  tell  us  all  that  has  been  shown  you  of 
that  which  is  between  birth  and  death. 

And  he  answered. 

People  of  Orphalese,  of  what  can  I 
H 


speak  save  of  that  which  is  even  now 
moving  within  your  souls'?  ' 

Then  said  Almitra,  Speak  to  us  of 
Love. 

And  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  upon 
the  people,  and  there  fell  a stillness 
upon  them.  And  with  a great  voice  he 
said: 

When  love  beckons  to  you,  follow  him. 

Though  his  ways  are  hard  and  steep. 

And  when  his  wings  enfold  you  yield  to 
him. 

Though  the  sword  hidden  among  his 
pinions  may  wound  you. 

And  when  he  speaks  to  you  believe  in 
him. 

Though  his  voice  may  shatter  your 
dreams  as  the  north  wind  lays  waste  the 
garden. 

For  even  as  love  crowns  you  so  shall  he 
crucify  you.  Even  as  he  is  for  your 
growth  so  is  he  for  your  pruning. 

Even  as  he  ascends  to  your  height  and 

^5 


caresses  your  tenderest  branches  that 
quiver  in  the  sun, 

So  shall  he  descend  to  your  roots  and 
shake  them  in  their  clinging  to  the  earth. 

Like  sheaves  of  corn  he  gathers  you 
unto  himself. 

He  threshes  you  to  make  you  naked. 

He  sifts  you  to  free  you  from  your 
husks. 

He  grinds  you  to  whiteness. 

He  kneads  you  until  you  are  pliant; 

And  then  he  assigns  you  to  his  sacred 
lire,  that  you  may  become  sacred  bread  for 
God’s  sacred  feast. 

All  these  things  shall  love  do  unto  you 
that  you  may  know  the  secrets  of  your 
heart,  and  in  that  knowledge  become  a 
fragment  of  Life’s  heart. 

But  if  in  your  fear  you  would  seek  only 
love’s  peace  and  love’s  pleasure. 

Then  it  is  better  for  you  that  you  cover 
i6 


your  nakedness  and  pass  out  of  love’s 
threshing-floor, 

Into  the  seasonless  world  where  you 
shall  laugh,  but  not  all  of  your  laughter, 
and  weep,  but  not  all  of  your  tears. 

Love  gives  naught  but  itself  and  takes 
naught  but  from  itself. 

Love  possesses  not  nor  would  it  be  pos- 
sessed; 

For  love  is  sufficient  unto  love. 

When  you  love  you  should  not  say, 
“God  is  in  my  heart,”  but  rather,  “I  am 
in  the  heart  of  God.” 

And  think  not  you  can  direct  the  course 
of  love,  for  love,  if  it  finds  you  worthy, 
directs  your  course. 

Love  has  no  other  desire  but  to  fulfil  it- 
self. 

But  if  you  love  and  must  needs  have 
desires,  let  these  be  your  desires : 

To  melt  and  be  like  a running  brook 
that  sings  its  melody  to  the  night. 


17 


To  know  the  pain  of  too  much  tender- 
ness. 

To  be  wounded  by  your  own  under- 
standing of  love; 

And  to  bleed  willingly  and  joyfully. 

To  wake  at  dawn  with  a winged  heart 
and  give  thanks  for  another  day  of  loving; 

To  rest  at  the  noon  hour  and  meditate 
love’s  ecstacy; 

To  return  home  at  eventide  with  grati- 
tude; 

And  then  to  sleep  with  a prayer  for  the 
beloved  in  your  heart  and  a song  of  praise 
upon  your  lips. 


l8 


Then  Almitra  spoke  again  and  said. 
And  what  of  Marriage,  master'? 

And  he  answered  saying: 

You  were  born  together,  and  together 
you  shall  be  forevermore. 

You  shall  be  together  when  the  white 
wings  of  death  scatter  your  days. 

Aye,  you  shall  be  together  even  in  the 
silent  memory  of  God. 

But  let  there  be  spaces  in  your  together- 
ness. 

And  let  the  winds  of  the  heavens  dance 
between  you. 

Love  one  another,  but  make  not  a bond 
of  love: 

Let  it  rather  be  a moving  sea  between 
the  shores  of  your  souls. 

Fill  each  other’s  cup  but  drink  not  from 
one  cup. 

Give  one  another  of  your  bread  but  eat 
not  from  the  same  loaf. 


Sing  and  dance  together  and  be  joyous, 
but  let  each  one  of  you  be  alone, 

Even  as  the  strings  of  a lute  are  alone 
though  they  quiver  with  the  same  music. 

Give  your  hearts,  but  not  into  each 
other’s  keeping. 

For  only  the  hand  of  Life  can  contain 
your  hearts. 

And  stand  together  yet  not  too  near  to- 
gether : 

For  the  pillars  of  the  temple  stand 
apart. 

And  the  oak  tree  and  the  cypress  grow 
not  jji  each  other’s  shadow. 


20 


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i 


And  a woman  who  held  a babe  against 
her  bosom  said,  Speak  to  us  of  Chil“ 
dren. 

And  he  said : 

Your  children  are  not  your  children. 

They  are  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Life’s  longing  for  itself. 

They  come  through  you  but  not  from 
you, 

And  though  they  are  with  you  yet  they 
belong  not  to  you. 

You  may  give  them  your  love  but  not 
your  thoughts. 

For  they  have  their  own  thoughts. 

You  may  house  their  bodies  but  not 
their  souls. 

For  their  souls  dwell  in  the  house  of 
tomorrow,  which  you  cannot  visit,  not 
even  in  your  dreams. 

You  may  strive  to  be  like  them,  but  seek 
not  to  make  them  like  you. 


For  life  goes  not  backward  nor  tarries 
with  yesterday. 

You  are  the  bows  from  which  your  chil- 
dren as  living  arrows  are  sent  forth. 

The  archer  sees  the  mark  upon  the  path 
of  the  infinite,  and  He  bends  you  with 
His  might  that  His  arrows  may  go  swift 
and  far. 

Let  your  bending  in  the  Archer’s  hand 
be  for  gladness; 

For  even  as  he  loves  the  arrow  that  flies, 
so  He  loves  also  the  bow  that  is  stable. 


22 


.l.  .. 


■ y 


• .1  • • X 


■'■  S' i 


:k 


Then  said  a rich  man,  Speak  to  us  of 
Giving. 

And  he  answered: 

You  give  but  little  when  you  give  of 
your  possessions. 

It  is  when  you  give  of  yourself  that  you 
truly  give. 

For  what  are  your  possessions  but 
things  you  keep  and  guard  for  fear  you 
may  need  them  tomorrow*? 

And  tomorrow,  what  shall  tomorrow 
bring  to  the  overprudent  dog  burying 
bones  in  the  trackless  sand  as  he  follows 
the  pilgrims  to  the  holy  city*? 

And  what  is  fear  of  need  but  need  it- 
self? 

Is  not  dread  of  thirst  when  your  well 
is  full,  the  thirst  that  is  unquench- 
able? 

There  are  those  who  give  little  of  the 

23 


much  which  they  have — and  they  give  it 
for  recognition  and  their  hidden  desire 
makes  their  gifts  unwholesome. 

And  there  are  those  who  have  little  and 
give  it  all. 

These  are  the  believers  in  life  and  the 
bounty  of  life,  and  their  coffer  is  never 
empty. 

There  are  those  who  give  with  joy,  and 
that  joy  is  their  reward. 

And  there  are  those  who  give  with  pain, 
and  that  pain  is  their  baptism. 

And  there  are  those  who  give  and  know 
not  pain  in  giving,  nor  do  they  seek  joy, 
nor  give  with  mindfulness  of  virtue; 

They  give  as  in  yonder  valley  the 
myrtle  breathes  its  fragrance  into  space. 

Through  the  hands  of  such  as  these  God 
speaks,  and  from  behind  their  eyes  He 
smiles  upon  the  earth. 

It  is  well  to  give  when  asked,  but  it  is 
better  to  give  unasked,  through  under- 
standing; 

And  to  the  open-handed  the  search  for 

24 


one  who  shall  receive  is  joy  greater  than 
giving. 

And  is  there  aught  you  would  with- 
hold? 

All  you  have  shall  some  day  be  given; 

Therefore  give  now,  that  the  season  of 
giving  may  be  yours  and  not  your  inheri- 
tors’. 

You  often  say,  “I  would  give,  but  only 
to  the  deserving.” 

The  trees  in  your  orchard  say  not  so, 
nor  the  flocks  in  your  pasture. 

They  give  that  they  may  live,  for  to 
withhold  is  to  perish. 

Surely  he  who  is  worthy  to  receive  his 
days  and  his  nights,  is  worthy  of  all  else 
from  you. 

And  he  who  has  deserved  to  drink  from 
the  ocean  of  life  deserves  to  All  his  cup 
from  your  little  stream. 

And  what  desert  greater  shall  there  be, 
than  that  which  lies  in  the  courage  and  the 
confidence,  nay  the  charity,  of  receiving? 

And  who  are  you  that  men  should  rend 

25 


their  bosom  and  unveil  their  pride,  that 
you  may  see  their  worth  naked  and  their 
pride  unabashed*? 

See  first  that  you  yourself  deserve  to  be 
a giver,  and  an  instrument  of  giving. 

For  in  truth  it  is  life  that  gives  unto 
life — while  you,  who  deem  yourself  a 
giver,  are  but  a witness. 

And  you  receivers — and  you  are  all 
receivers— assume  no  weight  of  gratitude, 
lest  you  lay  a yoke  upon  yourself  and  upon 
him  who  gives. 

Rather  rise  together  with  the  giver  on 
his  gifts  as  on  wings; 

For  to  be  overmindful  of  your  debt,  is 
to  doubt  his  generosity  who  has  the  free- 
hearted eafth  for  mother,  and  God  for 
father. 


26 


Then  an  old  man,  a keeper  of  an  inn, 
said.  Speak  to  us  of  Eating  and  Drink- 
ing. 

And  he  said  : 

Would  that  you  could  live  on  the  fra- 
grance of  the  earth,  and  like  an  air  plant 
be  sustained  by  the  light. 

But  since  you  must  kill  to  eat,  and  rob 
the  newly  born  of  its  mother’s  milk  to 
quench  your  thirst,  let  it  then  be  an  act 
of  worship. 

And  let  your  board  stand  an  altar  on 
which  the  pure  and  the  innocent  of  forest 
and  plain  are  sacrificed  for  that  which  is 
purer  and  still  more  innocent  in  man. 

When  you  kill  a beast  say  to  him  in 
your  heart, 

“By  the  same  power  that  slays  you,  1 
too  am  slain;  and  I too  shall  be  con- 
sumed. 


27 


For  the  law  that  delivered  you  into  my 
hand  shall  deliver  me  into  a mightier 
hand. 

Your  blood  and  my  blood  is  naught  but 
the  sap  that  feeds  the  tree  of  heaven.” 


And  when  you  crush  an  apple  with  your 
teeth,  say  to  it  in  your  heart, 

“Your  seeds  shall  live  in  my  body. 

And  the  buds  of  your  tomorrow  shall 
blossom  in  my  heart. 

And  your  fragrance  shall  be  my  breath. 
And  together  we  shall  rejoice  through 
all  the  seasons.” 


And  in  the  autumn,  when  you  gather 
the  grapes  of  your  vineyards  for  the  wine- 
press, say  in  your  heart, 

“I  too  am  a vineyard,  and  my  fruit 
shall  be  gathered  for  the  winepress. 

And  like  new  wine  I shall  be  kept  in 
eternal  vessels.” 

And  in  winter,  when  you  draw  the  wine, 
28 


let  there  be  in  your  heart  a song  for  each 
cup; 

And  let  there  be  in  the  song  a remem- 
brance for  the  autumn  days,  and  for  the 
vineyard,  and  for  the  winepress. 


29 


Then  a ploughman  said,  Speak  to  us 
of  Work. 

And  he  answered,  saying : 

You  work  that  you  may  keep  pace  with 
the  earth  and  the  soul  of  the  earth. 

For  to  be  idle  is  to  become  a stranger 
unto  the  seasons,  and  to  step  out  of  life’s 
procession,  that  marches  in  majesty  and 
proud  submission  towards  the  infinite. 

When  you  work  you  are  a flute  through 
whose  heart  the  whispering  of  the  hours 
turns  to  music. 

Which  of  you  would  be  a reed,  dumb 
and  silent,  when  all  else  sings  together  in 
unison  ? 

Always  you  have  been  told  that  work 
is  a curse  and  labour  a misfortune. 

But  I say  to  you  that  when  you  work 
you  fulfil  a part  of  earth’s  furthest  dream, 

30 


assigned  to  you  when  that  dream  was 
born, 

And  in  keeping  yourself  with  labour 
you  are  in  truth  loving  life, 

And  to  love  life  through  labour  is  to  be 
intimate  with  life’s  inmost  secret. 

But  if  you  in  your  pain  call  birth  an  af- 
fliction and  the  support  of  the  flesh  a curse 
written  upon  your  brow,  then  I answer 
that  naught  but  the  sweat  of  your  brow 
shall  wash  away  that  which  is  written. 

You  have  been  told  also  that  life  is 
darkness,  and  in  your  weariness  you  echo 
what  was  said  by  the  weary. 

And  I say  that  life  is  indeed  darkness 
save  when  there  is  urge. 

And  all  urge  is  blind  save  when  there 
is  knowledge. 

And  all  knowledge  is  viin  save  when 
there  is  work, 

And  all  work  is  empty  save  when  there 
is  love; 

And  when  you  work  with  love  you  bind 

31 


yourself  to  yourself,  and  to  one  another, 
and  to  God. 

And  what  is  it  to  work  with  love*? 

It  is  to  weave  the  cloth  with  threads 
drawn  from  your  heart,  even  as  if  your  be- 
loved were  to  wear  that  cloth. 

It  is  to  build  a house  with  affection, 
even  as  if  your  beloved  were  to  dwell  in 
that  house. 

It  is  to  sow  seeds  with  tenderness  and 
reap  the  harvest  with  joy,  even  as  if  your 
beloved  were  to  eat  the  fruit. 

It  is  to  charge  all  things  you  fashion 
with  a breath  of  your  own  spirit. 

And  to  know  that  all  the  blessed 
dead  are  standing  about  you  and  watch- 
ing. 

Often  have  I heard  you  say,  as  if  speak- 
ing in  sleep,  “He  who  works  in  marble, 
and  finds  the  shape  of  his  own  soul  in  the 
stone,  is  nobler  than  he  who  ploughs  the 
soil. 

32 


And  he  who  seizes  the  rainbow  to  lay  it 
on  a cloth  in  the  likeness  of  man,  is  more 
than  he  who  makes  the  sandals  for  our 
feet.” 

But  I say,  not  in  sleep  but  in  the  over- 
wakefulness of  noontide,  that  the  wind 
speaks  not  more  sweetly  to  the  giant  oaks 
than  to  the  least  of  all  the  blades  of  grass; 

And  he  alone  is  great  who  turns  the 
voice  of  the  wind  into  a song  made 
sweeter  by  his  own  loving. 

Work  is  love  made  visible. 

And  if  you  cannot  work  with  love  but 
only  with  distaste,  it  is  better  that  you 
should  leave  your  work  and  sit  at  the  gate 
of  the  temple  and  take  alms  of  those  who 
work  with  joy. 

For  if  you  bake  bread  with  indifference, 
you  bake  a bitter  bread  that  feeds  but 
half  man’s  hunger. 

And  if  you  grudge  the  crushing  of  the 
grapes,  your  grudge  distils  a poison  in  the 
wine. 


33 


And  if  you  sing  though  as  angels,  and 
love  not  the  singing,  you  muffle  man’s 
ears  to  the  voices  of  the  day  and  the  voices 
of  the  night. 


Then  a woman  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Joy  and  Sorrow. 

And  he  answered: 

Your  joy  is  your  sorrow  unmasked. 

And  the  selfsame  well  from  which  your 
laughter  rises  was  oftentimes  filled  with 
your  tears. 

And  how  else  can  it  be*? 

The  deeper  that  sorrow  carves  into  your 
being,  the  more  joy  you  can  contain. 

Is  not  the  cup  that  holds  your  wine  the 
very  cup  that  was  burned  in  the  potter’s 
oven^? 

And  is  not  the  lute  that  soothes  your 
spirit,  the  very  wood  that  was  hollowed 
with  knives^ 

When  you  are  joyous,  look  deep  into 
your  heart  and  you  shall  find  it  is  only 
that  which  has  given  you  sorrow  that  is 
giving  you  joy. 

When  you  are  sorrowful  look  again  in 

35 


your  heart,  and  you  shall  see  that  in  truth 
you  are  weeping  for  that  which  has  been 
your  delight. 

Some  of  you  say,  “Joy  is  greater  than 
sorrow,”  and  others  say,  “Nay,  sorrow  is 
the  greater.” 

But  I say  unto  you,  they  are  insepar- 
able. 

Together  they  come,  and  when  one  sits 
alone  with  you  at  your  board,  remember 
that  the  other  is  asleep  upon  your  bed. 

Verily  you  are  suspended  like  scales  be- 
tween your  sorrow  and  your  joy. 

Only  when  you  are  empty  are  you  at 
standstill  and  balanced. 

When  the  treasure-keeper  lifts  you  to 
weigh  his  gold  and  his  silver,  needs  must 
your  joy  or  your  sorrow  rise  or  fall. 


36 


Then  a mason  came  forth  and  said, 
Speak  to  us  of  Houses. 

And  he  answered  and  said : 

Build  of  your  imaginings  a bower  in  the 
wilderness  ere  you  build  a house  within 
the  city  walls. 

For  even  as  you  have  home-comings  in 
your  twilight,  so  has  the  wanderer  in  you, 
the  ever  distant  and  alone. 

Your  house  is  your  larger  body. 

It  grows  in  the  sun  and  sleeps  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night ; and  it  is  not  dream- 
less. Does  not  your  house  dream*?  and 
dreaming,  leave  the  city  for  grove  or  hill- 
top? 

Would  that  I could  gather  your  houses 
into  my  hand,  and  like  a sower  scatter 
them  in  forest  and  meadow. 

Would  the  valleys  were  your  streets, 
and  the  green  paths  your  alleys,  that  you 

37 


might  seek  one  another  through  vineyards, 
and  come  with  the  fragrance  of  the  earth 
in  your  garments. 

But  these  things  are  not  yet  to  be. 

In  their  fear  your  forefathers  gathered 
you  too  near  together.  And  that  fear 
shall  endure  a little  longer.  A little 
longer  shall  your  city  walls  separate  your 
hearths  from  your  fields. 

And  tell  me,  people  of  Orphalese,  what 
have  you  in  these  houses And  what  is 
it  you  guard  with  fastened  doors'? 

Have  you  peace,  the  quiet  urge  that  re- 
veals your  power? 

Have  you  remembrances,  the  glimmer- 
ing arches  that  span  the  summits  of  the 
mind? 

Have  you  beauty,  that  leads  the  heart 
from  things  fashioned  of  wood  and  stone 
to  the  holy  mountain  ? 

Tell  me,  have  you  these  in  your  houses? 

Or  have  you  only  comfort,  and  the  lust 
for  comfort,  that  stealthy  thing  that 

38 


enters  the  house  a guest,  and  then  be- 
comes a host,  and  then  a master*? 

Ay,  and  it  becomes  a tamer,  and  with 
hook  and  scourge  makes  puppets  of  your 
larger  desires. 

Though  its  hands  are  silken,  its  heart 
is  of  iron. 

It  lulls  you  to  sleep  only  to  stand  by 
your  bed  and  jeer  at  the  dignity  of  the 
flesh. 

It  makes  mock  of  your  sound  senses, 
and  lays  them  in  thistledown  like  fragile 
vessels. 

Verily  the  lust  for  comfort  murders  the 
passion  of  the  soul,  and  then  walks  grin- 
ning in  the  funeral. 

But  you,  children  of  space,  you  restless 
in  rest,  you  shall  not  be  trapped  nor 
tamed. 

Your  house  shall  be  not  an  anchor  but 
a mast. 

It  shall  not  be  a glistening  film  that 

39 


covers  a wound,  but  an  eyelid  that  guards 
the  eye. 

You  shall  not  fold  your  wings  that  you 
may  pass  through  doors,  nor  bend  your 
heads  that  they  strike  not  against  a ceil- 
ing, nor  fear  to  breathe  lest  walls  should 
crack  and  fall  down. 

You  shall  not  dwell  in  tombs  made  by 
the  dead  for  the  living. 

And  though  of  magnificence  and  splen- 
dour, your  house  shall  not  hold  your  secret 
nor  shelter  your  longing. 

For  that  which  is  boundless  in  you 
abides  in  the  mansion  of  the  sky,  whose 
door  is  the  morning  mist,  and  whose  win- 
dows are  the  songs  and  the  silences  of 
night. 


40 


And  the  weaver  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Clothes. 

And  he  answered: 

Your  clothes  conceal  much  of  your 
beauty,  yet  they  hide  not  the  unbeautiful. 

And  though  you  seek  in  garments  the 
freedom  of  privacy  you  may  find  in  them 
a harness  and  a chain. 

Would  that  you  could  meet  the  sun  and 
the  wind  with  more  of  your  skin  and  less 
of  your  raiment. 

For  the  breath  of  life  is  in  the  sunlight 
and  the  hand  of  life  is  in  the  wind. 

Some  of  you  say,  “It  is  the  north  wind 
who  has  woven  the  clothes  we  wear.” 

And  I say.  Ay,  it  was  the  north  wind. 

But  shame  was  his  loom,  and  the  soften- 
ing of  the  sinews  was  his  thread. 

And  when  his  work  was  done  he  laughed 
in  the  forest. 


41 


Forget  not  that  modesty  is  for  a shield 
against  the  eye  of  the  unclean. 

And  when  the  unclean  shall  be  no  more, 
what  were  modesty  but  a fetter  and  a 
fouling  of  the  mind'? 

And  forget  not  that  the  earth  delights 
to  feel  your  bare  feet  and  the  winds  long 
to  play  with  your  hair. 


42 


And  a merchant  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Buying  and  Selling. 

And  he  answered  and  said : 

To  you  the  earth  yields  her  fruit,  and 
you  shall  not  want  if  you  but  know  how 
to  fill  your  hands. 

It  is  in  exchanging  the  gifts  of  the  earth 
that  you  shall  find  abundance  and  be 
satisfied. 

Yet  unless  the  exchange  be  in  love  and 
kindly  justice,  it  will  but  lead  some  to 
greed  and  others  to  hunger. 

When  in  the  market  place  you  toilers 
of  the  sea  and  fields  and  vineyards  meet 
the  weavers  and  the  potters  and  the 
gatherers  of  spices, — 

Invoke  then  the  master  spirit  of  the 
earth,  to  come  into  your  midst  and  sanc- 
tify the  scales  and  the  reckoning  that 
weighs  value  against  value. 


43 


And  suffer  not  the  barren-handed  to 
take  part  in  your  transactions,  who  would 
sell  their  words  for  your  labour. 

To  such  men  you  should  say, 

“Come  with  us  to  the  field,  or  go  with 
our  brothers  to  the  sea  and  cast  your  net; 

For  the  land  and  the  sea  shall  be 
bountiful  to  you  even  as  to  us.” 

And  if  there  come  the  singers  and  the 
dancers  and  the  flute  players, — buy  of 
their  gifts  also. 

For  they  too  are  gatherers  of  fruit  and 
frankincense,  and  that  which  they  bring, 
though  fashioned  of  dreams,  is  raiment 
and  food  for  your  soul. 

And  before  you  leave  the  market  place, 
see  that  no  one  has  gone  his  way  with 
empty  hands. 

For  the  master  spirit  of  the  earth  shall 
not  sleep  peacefully  upon  the  wind  till 
the  needs  of  the  least  of  you  are  satisfied. 


44 


Then  one  of  the  judges, of  the  city  stood 
forth  and  said,  Speak  to  us  of  Crime  and 
Punishment. 

And  he  answered,  saying: 

It  is  when  your  spirit  goes  wandering 
upon  the  wind, 

That  you,  alone  and  unguarded,  com- 
mit a wrong  unto  others  and  therefore 
unto  yourself. 

And  for  that  wrong  committed  must 
you  knock  and  wait  a while  unheeded  at 
the  gate  of  the  blessed. 

Like  the  ocean  is  your  god-self ; 

It  remains  for  ever  undefiled. 

And  like  the  ether  it  lifts  but  the 
winged. 

Even  like  the  sun  is  your  god-self ; 

It  knows  not  the  ways  of  the  mole  nor 
seeks  it  the  holes  of  the  serpent. 


45 


But  your  god-self  dwells  not  alone  in 
your  being. 

Much  in  you  is  still  man,  and  much  in 
you  is  not  yet  man, 

But  a shapeless  pigmy  that  walks  asleep 
in  the  mist  searching  for  its  own  awaken- 
ing. 

And  of  the  man  in  you  would  I now 
speak. 

For  it  is  he  and  not  your  god-self  nor 
the  pigmy  in  the  mist,  that  knows  crime 
and  the  punishment  of  crime. 

Oftentimes  have  I heard  you  speak  of 
one  who  commits  a wrong  as  though  he 
were  not  one  of  you,  but  a stranger  unto 
you  and  an  intruder  upon  your  world. 

But  I say  that  even  as  the  holy  and  the 
righteous  cannot  rise  beyond  the  highest 
which  is  in  each  one  of  you. 

So  the  wicked  and  the  weak  cannot  fall 
lower  than  the  lowest  which  is  in  you  also. 

And  as  a single  leaf  turns  not  yellow 
but  with  the  silent  knowledge  of  the 
whole  tree, 

46 


So  the  wrong-doer  cannot  do  wrong 
without  the  hidden  will  of  you  all. 

Like  a procession  you  walk  together  to- 
wards your  god-self. 

You  are  the  way  and  the  wayfarers. 

And  when  one  of  you  falls  down  he  falls 
for  those  behind  him,  a caution  against  the 
stumbling  stone. 

Ay,  and  he  falls  for  those  ahead  of 
him,  who  though  faster  and  surer  of  foot, 
yet  removed  not  the  stumbling  stone. 

And  this  also,  though  the  word  lie 
heavy  upon  your  hearts : 

The  murdered  is  not  unaccountable  for 
his  own  murder. 

And  the  robbed  is  not  blameless  in 
being  robbed. 

The  righteous  is  not  innocent  of  the 
deeds  of  the  wicked. 

And  the  white-handed  is  not  clean  in 
the  doings  of  the  felon. 

Yea,  the  guilty  is  oftentimes  the  victim 
of  the  injured. 

And  still  more  often  the  condemned  is 

47 


the  burden  bearer  for  the  guiltless  and  un- 
blamed. 

You  cannot  separate  the  just  from  the 
unjust  and  the  good  from  the  wicked; 

For  they  stand  together  before  the  face 
of  the  sun  even  as  the  black  thread  and 
the  white  are  woven  together. 

And  when  the  black  thread  breaks,  the 
weaver  shall  look  into  the  whole  cloth, 
and  he  shall  examine  the  loom  also. 

If  any  of  you  would  bring  to  judgment 
the  unfaithful  wife. 

Let  him  also  weigh  the  heart  of  her  hus- 
band in  scales,  and  measure  his  soul  with 
measurements. 

And  let  him  who  would  lash  the 
offender  look  unto  the  spirit  of  the 
offended. 

And  if  any  of  you  would  punish  in  the 
name  of  righteousness  and  lay  the  ax 
unto  the  evil  tree,  let  him  see  to  its 
roots ; 

And  verily  he  will  find  the  roots  of  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  fruitful  and  the 
48 


fruitless,  all  entwined  together  in  the 
silent  heart  of  the  earth. 

And  you  judges  who  would  be  just, 

What  judgment  pronounce  you  upon 
him  who  though  honest  in  the  flesh  yet  is 
a thief  in  spirit? 

What  penalty  lay  you  upon  him  who 
slays  in  the  flesh  yet  is  himself  slain  in  the 
spirit? 

And  how  prosecute  you  him  who  in 
action  is  a deceiver  and  an  oppressor. 

Yet  who  also  is  aggrieved  and  out- 
raged ? 

And  how  shall  you  punish  those  whose 
remorse  is  already  greater  than  their  mis- 
deeds? 

Is  not  remorse  the  justice  which  is  ad- 
ministered by  that  very  law  which  you 
would  fain  serve? 

Yet  you  cannot  lay  remorse  upon  the 
innocent  nor  lift  it  from  the  heart  of  the 
guilty. 

Unbidden  shall  it  call  in  the  night,  that 
men  may  wake  and  gaze  upon  themselves. 

49 


And  you  who  would  understand  jus- 
tice, how  shall  you  unless  you  look  i^pon 
all  deeds  in  the  fullness  of  lights 

Only  then  shall  you  know  that  the  erect 
and  the  fallen  are  but  one  man  standing 
in  twilight  between  the  night  of  his 
pigmy-self  and  the  day  of  his  god-self, 
And  that  the  corner-stone  of  the  temple 
is  not  higher  than  the  lowest  stone  in  its 
foundation. 


50 


Then  a lawyer  said,  But  what  of  om 
Laws,  master? 

And  he  answered : 

You  delight  in  laying  down  laws. 

Yet  you  delight  more  in  breaking  them. 

Like  children  playing  by  the  ocean  who 
build  sand-towers  with  constancy  and 
then  destroy  them  with  laughter. 

But  while  you  build  your  sand-towers 
the  ocean  brings  ipore  sand  to  the  shore, 

And  when  you  destroy  them  the  ocean 
laughs  with  you. 

Verily  the  ocean  laughs  always  with 
the  innocent. 

But  what  of  those  to  whom  life  is  not 
an  ocean,  and  man-made  laws  are  not 
sand-towers. 

But  to  whom  life  is  a rock,  and  the  law 
a chisel  with  which  they  would  carve  it  in 
their  own  likeness  ? 


51 


What  of  the  cripple  who  hates 
dancers  “? 

What  of  the  ox  who  loves  his  yoke  and 
deems  the  elk  and  deer  of  the  forest  stray 
and  vagrant  things'? 

What  of  the  old  serpent  who  cannot 
shed  his  skin,  and  calls  all  others  naked 
and  shameless? 

And  of  him  who  comes  early  to  the 
wedding-feast,  and  when  over-fed  and 
tired  goes  his  way  saying  that  all  feasts 
are  violation  and  all  feasters  law- 
breakers? 

What  shall  I say  of  these  save  that 
they  too  stand  in  the  sunlight,  but  with 
their  backs  to  the  sun? 

They  see  only  their  shadows,  and  their 
shadows  are  their  laws. 

And  what  is  the  sun  to  them  but  a 
caster  of  shadows? 

And  what  is  it  to  acknowledge  the  laws 
but  to  stoop  down  and  trace  their  shadows 
upon  the  earth? 

But  you  who  walk  facing  the  sun,  what 

52 


images  drawn  on  the  earth  can  hold  you*? 

You  who  travel  with  the  wind,  what 
weather-vane  shall  direct  your  coursed 

What  man’s  law  shall  bind  you  if  you 
break  your  yoke  but  upon  no  man’s  prison 
door? 

What  laws  shall  you  fear  if  you  dance 
but  stumble  against  no  man’s  iron  chains? 

And  who  is  he  that  shall  bring  you  to 
judgment  if  you  tear  off  your  garment  yet 
leave  it  in  no  man’s  path? 

People  of  Orphalese,  you  can  muffle  the 
drum,  and  you  can  loosen  the  strings  of 
the  lyre,  but  who  shall  command  the  sky- 
lark not  to  sing? 


53 


And  an  orator  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Freedom. 

And  he  answered : 

At  the  city  gate  and  by  your  fireside  I 
have  seen  you  prostrate  yourself  and 
worship  your  own  freedom, 

Even  as  slaves  humble  themselves  be- 
fore a tyrant  and  praise  him  though  he 
slays  them. 

Ay,  in  the  grove  of  the  temple  and  in 
the  shadow  of  the  citadel  I have  seen  the 
freest  among  you  wear  their  freedom  as  a 
yoke  and  a handcuff. 

And  my  heart  bled  within  me;  for  you 
can  only  be  free  when  even  the  desire  of 
seeking  freedom  becomes  a harness  to  you, 
and  when  you  cease  to  speak  of  freedom 
as  a goal  and  a fulfilment. 

You  shall  be  free  indeed  when  your 
days  are  not  without  a care  nor  your 

^4 


nights  without  a want  and  a grief, 

But  rather  when  these  things  girdle 
your  life  and  yet  you  rise  above  them 
naked  and  unbound. 

And  how  shall  you  rise  beyond  your 
days  and  nights  unless  you  break  the 
chains  which  you  at  the  dawn  of  your  un- 
derstanding  have  fastened  around  your 
noon  hour*? 

In  truth  that  which  you  call  freedom  is 
the  strongest  of  these  chains,  though  its 
links  glitter  in  the  sun  and  dazzle  your 
eyes. 

And  what  is  it  but  fragments  of  your 
own  self  you  would  discard  that  you  may 
become  free*? 

If  it  is  an  unjust  law  you  would 
abolish,  that  law  was  written  with  your 
own  hand  upon  your  own  forehead. 

You  cannot  erase  it  by  burning  your 
law  books  nor  by  washing  the  foreheads 
of  your  judges,  though  you  pour  the  sea 
upon  them. 

And  if  it  is  a despot  you  would  de- 

55 


throne,  see  first  that  his  throne  erected 
within  you  is  destroyed. 

For  how  can  a tyrant  rule  the  free  and 
the  proud,  but  for  a tyranny  in  their  own 
freedom  and  a shame  in  their  own  pride 

And  if  it  is  a care  you  would  cast  off, 
that  care  has  been  chosen  by  you  rather 
than  imposed  upon  you. 

And  if  it  is  a fear  you  would  dispel,  the 
seat  of  that  fear  is  in  your  heart  and  not 
in  the  hand  of  the  feared. 

Verily  all  things  move  within  your 
being  in  constant  half  embrace,  the  de- 
sired and  the  dreaded,  the  repugnant  and 
the  cherished,  the  pursued  and  that  which 
you  would  escape. 

These  things  move  within  you  as  lights 
and  shadows  in  pairs  that  cling. 

And  when  the  shadow  fades  and  is  no 

I 

more,  the  light  that  lingers  becomes  a 
shadow  to  another  light. 

And  thus  your  freedom  when  it  loses  its 
fetters  becomes  itself  the  fetter  of  a 
greater  freedom. 

56 


And  the  priestess  spoke  again  and  said : 
Speak  to  us  of  Reason  and  Passion. 

And  he  answered,  saying: 

Your  soul  is  oftentimes  a battlefield, 
upon  which  your  reason  and  your  judg- 
ment wage  war  against  your  passion  and 
your  appetite. 

Would  that  I could  be  the  peacemaker 
in  your  soul,  that  I might  turn  the  discord 
and  the  rivalry  of  your  elements  into 
oneness  and  melody. 

But  how  shall  I,  unless  you  yourselves 
be  also  the  peacemakers,  nay,  the  lovers 
of  all  your  elements'? 

Your  reason  and  your  passion  are  the 
rudder  and  the  sails  of  your  seafaring 
soul. 

If  either  your  sails  or  your  rudder  be 
broken,  you  can  but  toss  and  drift,  or  else 
be  held  at  a standstill  in  mid-seas. 


57 


For  reason,  ruling  alone,  is  a force  con- 
fining; and  passion,  unattended,  is  a flame 
that  burns  to  its  own  destruction. 

Therefore  let  your  soul  exalt  your 
reason  to  the  height  of  passion,  that  it 
may  sing; 

And  let  it  direct  your  passion  with 
reason,  that  your  passion  may  live 
through  its  own  daily  resurrection,  and 
like  the  phoenix  rise  above  its  own  ashes. 

I would  have  you  consider  your  judg- 
ment and  your  appetite  even  as  you  would 
two  loved  guests  in  your  house. 

Surely  you  would  not  honour  one  guest 
above  the  other;  for  he  who  is  more  mind- 
ful of  one  loses  the  love  and  the  faith  of 
both 

Among  the  hills,  when  you  sit  in  the 
cool  shade  of  the  white  poplars,  sharing 
the  peace  and  serenity  of  distant  fields 
and  meadows — then  let  your  heart  say  in 
silence,  “God  rests  in  reason.” 

And  when  the  storm  comes,  and  the 


mighty  wind  shakes  the  forest,  and 
thunder  and  lightning  proclaim  the 
majesty  of  the  sky, — then  let  your  heart 
say  in  awe,  “God  moves  in  passion.” 

And  since  you  are  a breath  in  God’s 
sphere,  and  a leaf  in  God’s  forest,  you  too 
should  rest  in  reason  and  move  in  passion, 


59 


And  a woman  spoke,  saying,  Tell  us 
of  Pain. 

And  he  said : 

Your  pain  is  the  breaking  of  the  shell 
that  encloses  your  understanding. 

Even  as  the  stone  of  the  fruit  must 
break,  that  its  heart  may  stand  in  the  sun, 
so  must  you  know  pain. 

And  could  you  keep  your  heart  in 
wonder  at  the  daily  miracles  of  your  life, 
your  pain  would  not  seem  less  wondrous 
than  your  joy; 

And  you  would  accept  the  seasons 
of  your  heart,  even  as  you  have  always  ac- 
cepted the  seasons  that  pass  over  your 
fields. 

And  you  would  watch  with  serenity 
through  the  winters  of  your  grief. 

Much  of  your  pain  is  self-chosen. 

It  is  the  bitter  potion  by  which  the  phy- 

6o 


sician  within  you  heals  your  sick  self. 

Therefore  trust  the  physician,  and  drink 
his  remedy  in  silence  and  tranquillity  : 

For  his  hand,  though  heavy  and  hard,  is 
guided  by  the  tender  hand  of  the  Unseen, 
And  the  cup  he  brings,  though  it  burn 
your  lips,  has  been  fashioned  of  the  clay 
which  the  Potter  has  moistened  with  His 
own  sacred  tears. 


\ 


6i 


And  a man  said,  Speak  to  us  of  Self- 
Knowledge. 

And  he  answered,  saying: 

Your  hearts  know  in  silence  the  secrets 
of  the  days  and  the  nights. 

But  your  ears  thirst  for  the  sound  of 
your  heart’s  knowledge. 

You  would  know  in  words  that  which 
you  have  always  known  in  thought. 

You  would  touch  with  your  fingers  the 
naked  body  of  your  dreams. 

And  it  is  well  you  should. 

The  hidden  well-spring  of  your  soul 
must  needs  rise  and  run  murmuring  to  the 
sea; 

And  the  treasure  of  your  infinite  depths 
would  be  revealed  to  your  eyes. 

But  let  there  be  no  scales  to  weigh  your 
unknown  treasure; 

And  seek  not  the  depths  of  your 


62 


knowledge  with  staff  or  sounding  line. 

For  self  is  a sea  boundless  and  measure- 
less. 

Say  not,  “I  have  found  the  truth,”  but 
rather,  “I  have  found  a truth.” 

Say  not,  “I  have  found  the  path  of  the 
soul.”  Say  rather,  “I  have  met  the  soul 
walking  upon  my  path.” 

For  the  soul  walks  upon  all  paths. 

The  soul  walks  not  upon  a line,  neither 
does  it  grow  like  a reed. 

The  soul  unfolds  itself,  like  a lotus  of 
countless  petals. 


63 


Then  said  a teacher,  Speak  to  us  of 
Teaching. 

And  he  said: 

No  man  can  reveal  to  you  aught  but 
that  which  already  lies  half  asleep  in  the 
dawning  of  your  knowledge. 

The  teacher  who  walks  in  the  shadow 
of  the  temple,  among  his  followers,  gives 
not  of  his  wisdom  but  rather  of  his  faith 
and  his  lovingness. 

If  he  is  indeed  wise  he  does  not  bid  you 
enter  the  house  of  his  wisdom,  but  rather 
leads  you  to  the  threshold  of  your  own 
mind. 

The  astronomer  may  speak  to  you  of  his 
understanding  of  space,  but  he  cannot 
give  you  his  understanding. 

The  musician  may  sing  to  you  of  the 
\ rhythm  which  is  in  all  space,  but  he  cannot 
give  you  the  ear  which  arrests  the  rhythm 
nor  the  voice  that  echoes  it. 

64 


And  he  who  is  versed  in  the  science  of 
numbers  can  tell  of  the  regions  of  weight 
and  measure,  but  he  cannot  conduct  you 
thither. 

For  the  vision  of  one  man  lends  not  its 
wings  to  another  man. 

And  even  as  each  one  of  you  stands 
alone  in  God’s  knowledge,  so  must  each 
one  of  you  be  alone  in  his  knowledge  of 
God  and  in  his  understanding  of  the 
earth. 


And  a youth  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Friendship. 

And  he  answered,  saying: 

Your  friend  is  your  needs  answered. 

He  is  your  field  which  you  sow  with 
love  and  reap  with  thanksgiving. 

And  he  is  your  board  and  your  fireside. 

For  you  come  to  him  with  your  hunger, 
and  you  seek  him  for  peace. 

When  your  friend  speaks  his  mind  you 
fear  not  the  “nay”  in  your  own  mind,  nor 
do  you  withhold  the  “ay.” 

And  when  he  is  silent  your  heart  ceases 
not  to  listen  to  his  heart;  ^ 

For  without  words,  in  friendship,  all 
thoughts,  all  desires,  all  expectations  are 
born  and  shared,  with  joy  that  is  unac- 
claimed. 

When  you  part  from  your  friend,  you 
grieve  not; 

For  that  which  you  love  most  in  him 
may  be  clearer  in  his  absence,  as  the  moun- 
tain to  the  climber  is  clearer  from  the 
plain. 

66 


And  let  there  be  no  purpose  in  friend- 
ship save  the  deepening  of  the  spirit. 

For  love  that  seeks  aught  but  the  dis- 
closure of  its  own  mystery  is  not  love  but 
a net  cast  forth:  and  only  the  unprofitable 
is  caught. 

And  let  your  best  be  for  your  friend. 

If  he  must  know  the  ebb  of  your  tide, 
let  him  know  its  flood  also. 

For  what  is  your  friend  that  you  should 
seek  him  with  hours  to  kill*? 

Seek  him  always  with  hours  to  live. 

For  it  is  his  to  fill  your  need,  but  not 
your  emptiness. 

And  in  the  sweetness  of  friendship  let 
there  be  laughter,  and  sharing  of  pleas- 
ures. 

For  in  the  dew  of  little  things  the  heart 
finds  its  morning  and  is  refreshed. 


67 


And  then  a scholar  said,  Speak  of 
T alking. 

And  he  answered,  saying: 

You  talk  when  you  cease  to  be  at  peace 
with  your  thoughts; 

And  when  you  can  no  longer  dwell  in 
the  solitude  of  your  heart  you  live  in  your 
lips,  and  sound  is  a diversion  and  a pas- 
time. 

And  in  much  of  your  talking,  thinking 
is  half  murdered. 

For  thought  is  a bird  of  space,  that  in  a 
cage  of  words  may  indeed  unfold  its 
wings  but  cannot  fly. 

There  are  those  among  you  who  seek 
the  talkative  through  fear  of  being  alone. 

The  silence  of  aloneness  reveals  to 
their  eyes  their  naked  selves  and  they 
would  escape. 

And  there  are  those  who  talk,  and  with- 

68 


out  knowledge  or  forethought  reveal  a 
truth  which  they  themselves  do  not  under- 
stand. 

And  there  are  those  who  have  the  truth 
within  them,  but  they  tell  it  not  in  words. 

In  the  bosom  of  such  as  these  the  spirit 
dwells  in  rhythmic  silence. 

When  you  meet  your  friend  on  the 
roadside  or  in  the  market  place,  let  the 
spirit  in  you  move  your  lips  and  direct 
your  tongue. 

Let  the  voice  within  your  voice  speak 
to  the  ear  of  his  ear ; 

For  his  soul  will  keep  the  truth  of  your 
heart  as  the  taste  of  the  wine  is  remem- 
bered 

When  the  colour  is  forgotten  and  the 
vessel  is  no  more. 


69 


And  an  astronomer  said,  Master,  what 
of  Time*? 

And  he  answered : 

You  would  measure  time  the  measure- 
less and  the  immeasurable. 

You  would  adjust  your  conduct  and 
even  direct  the  course  of  your  spirit  accord- 
ing to  hours  and  seasons. 

Of  time  you  would  make  a stream  upon 
whose  bank  you  would  sit  and  watch  its 
flowing. 

Yet  the  timeless  in  you  is  aware  of 
life’s  timelessness, 

And  knows  that  yesterday  is  but  to- 
day’s memory  and  tomorrow  is  today’s 
dream. 

And  that  that  which  sings  and  contem- 
plates in  you  is  still  dwelling  within  the 
bounds  of  that  first  moment  which  scat- 
tered the  stars  into  space. 

70 


Who  among  you  does  not  feel  that  his 
power  to  love  is  boundless^ 

And  yet  who  does  not  feel  that  very 
love,  though  boundless,  encompassed 
within  the  centre  of  his  being,  and  moving 
not  from  love  thought  to  love  thought,  nor 
from  love  deeds  to  other  love  deeds? 

And  is  not  time  even  as  love  is,  un- 
divided and  paceless? 

But  if  in  your  thought  you  must 
measure  time  into  seasons,  let  each  season 
encircle  all  the  other  seasons, 

And  let  today  embrace  the  past  with  re- 
membrance and  the  future  with  longing. 


71 


And  one  of  the  elders  of  the  city  said, 
Speak  to  us  of  Good  and  Evil. 

And  he  answered : 

Of  the  good  in  you  I can  speak,  but  not 
of  the  evil. 

For  what  is  evil  but  good  tortured  by 
its  own  hunger  and  thirst'? 

Verily  when  good  is  hungry  it 
seeks  food  even  in  dark  caves,  and  when 
it  thirsts  it  drinks  even  of  dead  wat- 
ers. 

You  are  good  when  you  are  one  with 
yourself. 

Yet  when  you  are  not  one  with  yourself 
you  are  not  evil. 

For  a divided  house  is  not  a den  of 
thieves;  it  is  only  a divided  house. 

And  a ship  without  rudder  may  wander 
aimlessly  among  perilous  isles  yet  sink 
not  to  the  bottom. 


72 


You  are  good  when  you  strive  to  give  of 
yourself. 

Yet  you  are  not  evil  when  you  seek 
gain  for  yourself. 

For  when  you  strive  for  gain  you  are 
but  a root  that  clings  to  the  earth  and 
sucks  at  her  breast. 

Surely  the  fruit  cannot  say  to  the  root, 
“Be  like  me,  ripe  and  full  and  ever  giving 
of  your  abundance.” 

For  to  the  fruit  giving  is  a need,  as  re- 
ceiving is  a need  to  the  root. 

You  are  good  when  you  are  fully 
awake  in  your  speech. 

Yet  you  are  not  evil  when  you  sleep 
while  your  tongue  staggers  without  pur- 
pose. 

And  even  stumbling  speech  may 
strengthen  a weak  tongue. 

You  are  good  when  you  walk  to  your 
goal  firmly  and  with  bold  steps. 

Yet  you  are  not  evil  when  you  go 
thither  limping. 


73 


Even  those  who  limp  go  not  back- 
ward. 

But  you  who  are  strong  and  swift,  see 
chat  you  do  not  limp  before  the  lame, 
deeming  it  kindness. 

You  are  good  in  countless  ways,  and 
you  are  not  evil  when  you  are  not 
good, 

You  are  only  loitering  and  sluggard. 

Pity  that  the  stags  cannot  teach  swift- 
ness to  the  turtles. 

In  your  longing  for  your  giant  self  lies 
your  goodness:  and  that  longing  is  in  all 
of  you. 

But  in  some  of  you  that  longing  is  a 
torrent  rushing  with  might  to  the  sea, 
carrying  the  secrets  of  the  hillsides  and 
the  songs  of  the  forest. 

And  in  others  it  is  a flat  stream  that 
loses  itself  in  angles  and  bends  and 
lingers  before  it  reaches  the  shore. 

But  let  not  him  who  longs  much  say  to 


74 


him  who  longs  little,  “Wherefore  are  you 
slow  and  halting*?” 

For  the  truly  good  ask  not  the  naked, 
“Where  is  your  garment?”  nor  the  house^ 
less,  “What  has  befallen  your  house?” 


75 


Then  a priestess  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Prayer. 

And  he  answered,  saying : 

You  pray  in  your  distress  and  in  your 
need;  would  that  you  might  pray  also  in 
the  fullness  of  your  joy  and  in  your  days 
of  abundance. 

For  what  is  prayer  but  the  expansion  of 
yourself  into  the  living  ether ^ 

And  if  it  is  for  your  comfort  to  pour 
your  darkness  into  space,  it  is  also  for  your 
delight  to  pour  forth  the  dawning  of  your 
heart. 

And  if  you  cannot  but  weep  when  your 
soul  summons  you  to  prayer,  she  should 
spur  you  again  and  yet  again,  though 
weeping,  until  you  shall  come  laughing. 

When  you  pray  you  rise  to  meet  in  the 
air  those  who  are  praying  at  that  very 


hour,  and  whom  save  in  prayer  you  may 
not  meet. 

Therefore  let  your  visit  to  that  temple 
invisible  be  for  naught  but  ecstasy  and 
sweet  communion. 

For  if  you  should  enter  the  temple  for 
no  other  purpose  than  asking  you  shall 
not  receive : 

And  if  you  should  enter  into  it  to 
humble  yourself  you  shall  not  be  lifted: 

Or  even  if  you  should  enter  into  it  to 
beg  for  the  good  of  others  you  shall  not  be 
heard. 

It  is  enough  that  you  enter  the  temple 
invisible. 

I cannot  teach  you  how  to  pray  in 
words. 

God  listens  not  to  your  words  save 
when  He  Himself  utters  them  through 
your  lips. 

And  I cannot  teach  you  the  prayer  of 
the  seas  and  the  forests  and  the  moun- 
tains. 


77 


But  you  who  are  born  of  the  mountains 
and  the  forests  and  the  seas  can  find  their 
prayer  in  your  heart, 

And  if  you  but  listen  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night  you  shall  hear  them  saying  in 
silence, 

“Our  God,  who  art  our  winged  self,  it 
is  thy  will  in  us  that  willeth. 

It  is  thy  desire  in  us  that  desireth. 

It  is  thy  urge  in  us  that  would  turn  our 
nights,  which  are  thine,  into  days  which 
are  thine  also. 

We  cannot  ask  thee  for  aught,  for  thou 
knowest  our  needs  before  they  are  born  in 
us: 

Thou  art  our  need;  and  in  giving  us 
more  of  thyself  thou  givest  us  all.” 


78 


Then  a hermit,  who  visited  the  city 
once  a year,  came  forth  and  said,  Speak 
to  us  of  Pleasure. 

And  he  answered,  saying : 

Pleasure  is  a freedom-song, 

But  it  is  not  freedom. 

It  is  the  blossoming  of  your  desires, 

But  it  is  not  their  fruit. 

It  is  a depth  calling  unto  a height. 

But  it  is  not  the  deep  nor  the  high. 

It  is  the  caged  taking  wing. 

But  it  is  not  space  encompassed. 

Ay,  in  very  truth,  pleasure  is  a freedom* 
song.  / 

And  I fain  would  have  you  sing  it  with 
fullness  of  heart;  yet  I would  not  have 
you  lose  your  hearts  in  the  singing. 

Some  of  your  youth  seek  pleasure  as  if 
it  were  all,  and  they  are  judged  and  re- 
buked. 


79 


I would  not  judge  nor  rebuke  them.  I 
would  have  them  seek. 

For  they  shall  find  pleasure,  but  not  her 
alone ; 

Seven  are  her  sisters,  and  the  least  of 
them  is  more  beautiful  than  pleasure. 

Have  you  not  heard  of  the  man  who 
was  digging  in  the  earth  for  roots  and 
found  a treasure 

And  some  of  your  elders  remember 
pleasures  with  regret  like  wrongs  com- 
mitted in  drunkenness. 

But  regret  is  the  beclouding  of  the 
mind  and  not  its  chastisement. 

They  should  remember  their  pleasures 
with  gratitude,  as  they  would  the  harvest 
of  a summer. 

Yet  if  it  comforts  them  to  regret,  let 
them  be  comforted. 

And  there  are  among  you  those  who  are 
neither  young  to  seek  nor  old  to  re- 
member; 

And  in  their  fear  of  seeking  and  re- 
80 


I 


membering  they  shun  all  pleasures,  lest 
they  neglect  the  spirit  or  offend  against  it. 

But  even  in  their  foregoing  is  their 
pleasure. 

And  thus  they  too  find  a treasure 
though  they  dig  for  roots  with  quivering 
hands. 

But  tell  me,  who  is  he  that  can  offend 
the  spirit? 

Shall  the  nightingale  offend  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  or  the  firefly  the  stars? 

And  shall  your  flame  or  your  smoke 
burden  the  wind? 

Think  you  the  spirit  is  a still  pool 
which  you  can  trouble  with  a staff? 

Oftentimes  in  denying  yourself  pleas- 
ure you  do  but  store  the  desire  in  the  re- 
cesses of  your  being. 

Who  knows  but  that  which  seems 
omitted  today,  waits  for  tomorrow  ? 

Even  your  body  knows  its  heritage  and 
its  rightful  need  and  will  not  be  deceived. 

And  your  body  is  the  harp  of  your  soul, 

And  it  is  yours  to  bring  forth 

8i 


sweet  music  from  it  or  confused  sounds. 


And  now  you  ask  in  your  heart,  “How 
shall  we  distinguish  that  which  is  good  in 
pleasure  from  that  which  is  not  good*?” 

Go  to  your  fields  and  your  gardens,  and 
you  shall  learn  that  it  is  the  pleasure  of 
the  bee  to  gather  honey  of  the  flower, 

But  it  is  also  the  pleasure  of  the  flower 
to  yield  its  honey  to  the  bee. 

For  to  the  bee  a flower  is  a fountain  of 
life. 

And  to  the  flower  a bee  is  a messenger  of 
love. 

And  to  both,  bee  and  flower,  the  giving 
and  the  receiving  of  pleasure  is  a need  and 
an  ecstasy. 

People  of  Orphalese,  be  in  your  pleas- 
ures like  the  flowers  and  the  bees. 


82 


And  a poet  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Beauty. 

And  he  answered: 

Where  shall  you  seek  beauty,  and  how 
shall  you  find  her  unless  she  herself  be 
your  way  and  your  guide 

And  how  shall  you  speak  of  her  except 
she  be  the  weaver  of  your  speech*? 

The  aggrieved  and  the  injured  say, 
“Beauty  is  kind  and  gentle. 

Like  a young  mother  half-shy  of  her 
own  glory  she  walks  among  us.” 

And  the  passionate  say,  “Nay,  beauty 
is  a thing  of  might  and  dread. 

Like  the  tempest  she  shakes  the  earth 
beneath  us  and  the  sky  above  us.” 

The  tired  and  the  weary  say,  “Beauty 
is  of  soft  whisperings.  She  speaks  in  our 
spirit. 


83 


Her  voice  yields  to  our  silences  like  a 
faint  light  that  quivers  in  fear  of  the 
shadow.” 

But  the  restless  say,  “We  have  heard 
her  shouting  among  the  mountains, 

And  with  her  cries  came  the  sound  of 
hoofs,  and  the  beating  of  wings  and  the 
roaring  of  lions.” 

\ 

At  night  the  watchmen  of  the  city  say, 
“Beauty  shall  rise  with  the  dawn  from  the 
east.” 

And  at  noontide  the  toilers  and  the 
wayfarers  say,  “We  have  seen  her  leaning 
over  the  earth  from  the  windows  of  the 
sunset.” 

In  winter  say  the  snow-bound,  “She 
shall  come  with  the  spring  leaping  upon 
the  hills.” 

And  in  the  summer  heat  the  reapers  say, 
“We  have  seen  her  dancing  with  the 
autumn  leaves,  and  we  saw  a drift  of  snow 
in  her  hair.” 


All  these  things  have  you  said  of 
beauty, 

Yet  in  truth  you  spoke  not  of  her  but  of 
needs  unsatisfied, 

And  beauty  is  not  a need  but  an  ec- 
stasy. 

It  is  not  a mouth  thirsting  nor  an  empty 
hand  stretched  forth. 

But  rather  a heart  enflamed  and  a soul 
enchanted. 

It  is  not  the  image  you  would  see  nor 
the  song  you  would  hear. 

But  rather  an  image  you  see  though 
you  close  your  eyes  and  a song  you  hear 
though  you  shut  your  ears. 

It  is  not  the  sap  within  the  furrowed 
bark,  nor  a wing  attached  to  a claw. 

But  rather  a garden  for  ever  in  bloom 
and  a flock  of  angels  for  ever  in 
flight. 

People  of  Orphalese,  beauty  is  life 
when  life  unveils  her  holy  face. 

But  you  are  life  and  you  are  the  veil. 


Beauty  is  eternity  gazing  at  itself  in  a 
mirror. 

But  you  are  eternity  and  you  are  the 
mirror. 


86 


And  an  old  priest  said,  Speak  to  us  of 
Religion. 

And  he  said : 

Have  I spoken  this  day  of  aught  else^ 

Is  not  religion  all  deeds  and  all  reflec- 
tion, 

And  that  which  is  neither  deed  nor  re- 
flection, but  a wonder  and  a surprise 
ever  springing  in  the  soul,  even  while 
the  hands  hew  the  stone  or  tend  the 
loom*? 

Who  can  separate  his  faith  from  his 
actions,  or  his  belief  from  his  occupa- 
tions*? 

Who  can  spread  his  hours  before  him, 
saying,  “This  for  God  and  this  for  myself ; 
This  for  my  soul,  and  this  other  for  my 
body*?” 

All  your  hours  are  wings  that  beat 
through  space  from  self  to  self. 


87 


He  who  wears  his  morality  but  as  his 
best  garment  were  better  naked. 

The  wind  and  the  sun  will  tear  no  holes 
in  his  skin. 

And  he  who  defines  his  conduct  by 
ethics  imprisons  his  song-bird  in  a cage. 

The  freest  song  comes  not  through  bars 
and  wires. 

And  he  to  whom  worshipping  is  a win- 
dow, to  open  but  also  to  shut,  has  not  yet 
visited  the  house  of  his  soul  whose  win- 
dows are  from  dawn  to  dawn. 

Your  daily  life  is  your  temple  and  your 
religion. 

Whenever  you  enter  into  it  take  with 
you  your  all. 

Take  the  plough  and  the  forge  and  the 
mallet  and  the  lute. 

The  things  you  have  fashioned  in 
necessity  or  for  delight. 

For  in  revery  you  cannot  rise  above  your 
achievements  nor  fall  lower  than  your 
failures. 

And  take  with  you  all  men: 

88 


For  in  adoration  you  cannot  fly  higher 
than  their  hopes  nor  humble  yourself 
lower  than  their  despair. 

And  if  you  would  know  God  be  not 
therefore  a solver  of  riddles. 

Rather  look  about  you  and  you  shall 
see  Him  playing  with  your  children. 

And  look  into  space;  you  shall  see  Him 
walking  in  the  cloud,  outstretching  His 
arms  in  the  lightning  and  descending  in 
rain. 

Y ou  shall  see  Him  smiling  in  flowers, 
then  rising  and  waving  His  hands  in 
trees. 


89 


Then  Almitra  spoke,  saying,  We 
would  ask  now  of  Death. 

And  he  said: 

You  would  know  the  secret  of  death. 

But  how  shall  you  find  it  unless  you 
seek  it  in  the  heart  of  life^ 

The  owl  whose  night-bound  eyes  are 
blind  unto  the  day  cannot  unveil  the  mys- 
tery of  light. 

If  you  would  indeed  behold  the  spirit 
of  death,  open  your  heart  wide  unto  the 
body  of  life. 

For  life  and  death  are  one,  even  as  the 
river  and  the  sea  are  one. 

In  the  depth  of  your  hopes  and  desires 
lies  your  silent  knowledge  of  the  beyond; 

And  like  seeds  dreaming  beneath  the 
snow  your  heart  dreams  of  spring. 

Trust  the  dreams,  for  in  them  is  hidden 
the  gate  to  eternity. 

90 


Your  fear  of  death  is  but  the  trembling 
of  the  shepherd  when  he  stands  before  the 
king  whose  hand  is  to  be  laid  upon  him  in 
honour. 

Is  the  shepherd  not  joyful  beneath  his 
trembling,  that  he  shall  wear  the  mark  of 
the  king*? 

Yet  is  he  not  more  mindful  of  his  trem- 
bling? 

For  what  is  it  to  die  but  to  stand  naked 
in  the  wind  and  to  melt  into  the  sun? 

And  what  is.  it  to  cease  breathing,  but 
to  free  the  breath  from  its  restless  tides, 
that  it  may  rise  and  expand  and  seek  God 
unencumbered? 

Only  when  you  drink  from  the  river  of 
silence  shall  you  indeed  sing. 

And  when  you  have  reached  the  moun- 
tain top,  then  you  shall  begin  to  climb. 

And  when  the  earth  shall  claim  your 
limbs,  then  shall  you  truly  dance. 


91 


And  now  it  was  evening. 

And  Almitra  the  seeress  said,  Blessed 
be  this  day  and  this  place  and  your  spirit 
that  has  spoken. 

And  he  answered,  Was  it  I who 
spoke*?  Was  I not  also  a listener 

Then  he  descended  the  steps  of  the 
Temple  and  all  the  people  followed  him. 
And  he  reached  his  ship  and  stood  upon 
the  deck. 

And  facing  the  people  again,  he  raised 
his  voice  and  said: 

People  of  Orphalese,  the  wind  bids  me 
leave  you. 

Less  hasty  am  I than  the  wind,  yet  I 
must  go. 

We  wanderers,  ever  seeking  the  lonelier 
way,  begin  no  day  where  we  have  ended 
another  day;  and  no  sunrise  finds  us 
where  sunset  left  us. 


92 


Even  while  the  earth  sleeps  we 
travel. 

We  are  the  seeds  of  the  tenacious  plant, 
and  it  is  in  our  ripeness  and  our  fullness 
of  heart  that  we  are  given  to  the  wind  and 
are  scattered. 

Brief  were  my  days  among  you,  and 
briefer  still  the  words  I have  spoken. 

But  should  my  voice  fade  in  your  ears, 
and  my  love  vanish  in  your  memory,  then 
I will  come  again. 

And  with  a richer  heart  and  lips  more 
yielding  to  the  spirit  will  I speak. 

Yea,  I shall  return  with  the  tide, 

And  though  death  may  hide  me,  and 
the  greater  silence  enfold  me,  yet  again 
will  I seek  your  understanding. 

And  not  in  vain  will  I seek. 

If  aught  I have  said  is  truth,  that  truth 
shall  reveal  itself  in  a clearer  voice,  and  in 
words  more  kin  to  your  thoughts. 

I go  with  the  wind,  people  of  Orpha- 
lese,  but  not  down  into  emptiness; 


93 


And  if  this  day  is  not  a fulfilment  of 
your  needs  and  my  love,  then  let  it  be  a 
promise  till  another  day. 

Man’s  needs  change,  but  not  his  love, 
nor  his  desire  that  his  love  should  satisfy 
his  needs. 

Know  therefore,  that  from  the  greater 
silence  I shall  return. 

The  mist  that  drifts  away  at  dawn, 
leaving  but  dew  in  the  fields,  shall  rise 
and  gather  into  a cloud  and  then  fall 
down  in  rain. 

And  not  unlike  the  mist  have  I been. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night  I have 
walked  in  your  streets,  and  my  spirit  has 
entered  your  houses. 

And  your  heart-beats  were  in  my  heart, 
and  your  breath  was  upon  my  face,  and  I 
knew  you  all. 

Ay,  I knew  your  joy  and  your  pain, 
and  in  your  sleep  your  dreams  were  my 
dreams. 

And  oftentimes  I was  among  you  a lake 
among  the  mountains. 

I mirrored  the  summits  in  you  and  the 

94 


bending  slopes,  and  even  the  passing 
flocks  of  your  thoughts  and  your  desires. 

And  to  my  silence  came  the  laughter  of 
your  children  in  streams,  and  the  longing 
of  your  youths  in  rivers. 

And  when  they  reached  my  depth  the 
streams  and  the  rivers  ceased  not  yet  to 
sing. 

But  sweeter  still  than  laughter  and 
greater  than  longing  came  to  me. 

It  was  the  boundless  in  you; 

The  vast  man  in  whom  you  are  all  but 
cells  and  sinews; 

He  in  whose  chant  all  your  singing  is 
but  a soundless  throbbing. 

It  is  in  the  vast  man  that  you  are  vast. 

And  in  beholding  him  that  I beheld  you 
and  loved  you. 

For  what  distances  can  love  reach  that 
are  not  in  that  vast  sphere? 

What  visions,  what  expectations  and 
what  presumptions  can  outsoar  that  flight? 

Like  a giant  oak  tree  covered  with  apple 
blossoms  is  the  vast  man  in  you. 


95 


His  might  binds  you  to  the  earth,  his 
fragrance  lifts  you  into  space,  and  in  his 
durability  you  are  deathless. 

You  have  been  told  that,  even  like  a 
chain,  you  are  as  weak  as  your  weakest 
link. 

This  is  but  half  the  truth.  You  are 
also  as  strong  as  your  strongest  link. 

To  measure  you  by  your  smallest  deed 
is  to  reckon  the  power  of  ocean  by  the 
frailty  of  its  foam. 

To  judge  you  by  your  failures  is  to 
cast  blame  upon  the  seasons  for  their  in- 
constancy. 

Ay,  you  are  like  an  ocean. 

And  though  heavy-grounded  ships  await 
the  tide  upon  your  shores,  yet,  even  like 
an  ocean,  you  cannot  hasten  your  tides. 

And  like  the  seasons  you  are  also. 

And  though  in  your  winter  you  deny 
your  spring, 

Y et  spring,  reposing  within  you,  smiles 
in  her  drowsiness  and  is  not  offended. 

96 


Think  not  I say  these  things  in  order 
that  you  may  say  the  one  to  the  other,  “He 
praised  us  well.  He  saw  but  the  good  in 
us.” 

I only  speak  to  you  in  words  of  that 
which  you  yourselves  know  in  thought. 

And  what  is  word  knowledge  but  a 
shadow  of  wordless  knowledge'? 

Your  thoughts  and  my  words  are  waves 
from  a sealed  memory  that  keeps  records 
of  our  yesterdays, 

And  of  the  ancient  days  when  the  earth 
knew  not  us  nor  herself. 

And  of  nights  when  earth  was  up- 
wrought  with  confusion. 

Wise  men  have  come  to  you  to  give  you 
of  their  wisdom.  I came  to  take  of  your 
wisdom : 

And  behold  I have  found  that  which  is 
greater  than  wisdom. 

It  is  a flame  spirit  in  you  ever  gathering 
more  of  itself. 

While  you,  heedless  of  its  expansion, 
bewail  the  withering  of  your  days. 


97 


It  is  life  in  quest  of  life  in  bodies  that 
fear  the  grave. 

There  are  no  graves  here. 

These  mountains  and  plains  are  a 
cradle  and  a stepping-stone. 

Whenever  you  pass  by  the  field 
where  you  have  laid  your  ancestors  look 
well  thereupon,  and  you  shall  see  your- 
selves and  your  children  dancing  hand  in 
hand. 

Verily  you  often  make  merry  without 
knowing. 

Others  have  come  to  you  to  whom  for 
golden  promises  made  unto  your  faith 
you  have  given  but  riches  and  power  and 
glory. 

Less  than  a promise  have  I given,  and 
yet  more  generous  have  you  been  to  me. 

You  have  given  me  my  deeper  thirst- 
ing after  life. 

Surely  there  is  no  greater  gift  to  a man 
than  that  which  turns  all  his  aims  into 
parching  lips  and  all  life  into  a fountain. 
98 


And  in  this  lies  my  honour  and  my  re- 
ward,— 

That  whenever  I come  to  the  fountain 
to  drink  I find  the  living  water  itself 
thirsty; 

And  it  drinks  me  while  I drink  it. 

Some  of  you  have  deemed  me  proud 
and  over-shy  to  receive  gifts. 

Too  proud  indeed  am  I to  receive 
wages,  but  not  gifts. 

And  though  I have  eaten  berries  among 
the  hills  when  you  would  have  had  me  sit 
at  your  board, 

And  slept  in  the  portico  of  the  temple 
when  you  would  gladly  have  sheltered 
me. 

Yet  was  it  not  your  loving  mindfulness 
of  my  days  and  my  nights  that  made  food 
sweet  to  my  mouth  and  girdled  my  sleep 
with  visions*? 

For  this  I bless  you  most: 

You  give  much  and  know  not  that  you 
give  at  all. 


99 


Verily  the  kindness  that  gazes  upon  it- 
self in  a mirror  turns  to  stone, 

And  a good  deed  that  calls  itself  by  ten- 
der names  becomes  the  parent  to  a curse. 

And  some  of  you  have  called  me  aloof, 
and  drunk  with  my  own  aloneness. 

And  you  have  said,  “He  holds  council 
with  the  trees  of  the  forest,  but  not  with 
men. 

He  sits  alone  on  hill-tops  and  looks 
down  upon  our  city.” 

True  it  is  that  I have  climbed  the  hills 
and  walked  in  remote  places. 

How  could  I have  seen  you  save  from 
a great  height  or  a great  distanced 

How  can  one  be  indeed  near  unless  he 
be  far? 

And  others  among  you  called  unto  me, 
not  in  words,  and  they  said, 

“Stranger,  stranger,  lover  of  unreach- 
able heights,  why  dwell  you  among  the 
summits  where  eagles  build  their  nests? 


100 


Why  seek  you  the  unattainable^ 

What  storms  would  you  trap  in  your 
net, 

And  what  vaporous  birds  do  you  hunt 
in  the  sky*? 

Come  and  be  one  of  us. 

Descend  and  appease  your  hunger  with 
our  bread  and  quench  your  thirst  with  our 
wine.” 

In  the  solitude  of  their  souls  they  said 
these  things; 

But  were  their  solitude  deeper  they 
would  have  known  that  I sought  but 
the  secret  of  your  joy  and  your  pain, 

And  I hunted  only  your  larger  selves 
that  walk  the  sky. 

But  the  hunter  was  also  the  hunted; 

For  many  of  my  arrows  left  my  bow 
only  to  seek  my  own  breast. 

And  the  flier  was  also  the  creeper; 

For  when  my  wings  were  spread  in  the 
sun  their  shadow  upon  the  earth  was  a 
turtle. 

And  I the  believer  was  also  the  doubter; 


101 


For  often  have  I put  my  finger  in  my 
own  wound  that  I might  have  the  greater 
belief  in  you  and  the  greater  knowledge 
of  you. 

And  it  is  with  this  belief  and  this 
knowledge  that  I say, 

You  are  not  enclosed  within  your 
bodies,  nor  confined  to  houses  or  fields. 

That  which  is  you  dwells  above  the 
mountain  and  roves  with  the  wind. 

It  is  not  a thing  that  crawls  into  the  sun 
for  warmth  or  digs  holes  into  darkness  for 
safety. 

But  a thing  free,  a spirit  that  envelops 
the  earth  and  moves  in  the  ether. 

If  these  be  vague  words,  then  seek  not 
to  clear  them. 

Vague  and  nebulous  is  the  beginning  of 
all  things,  but  not  their  end. 

And  I fain  would  have  you  remember 
me  as  a beginning. 

Life,  and  all  that  lives,  is  conceived  in 
the  mist  and  not  in  the  crystal. 


102 


And  who  knows  but  a crystal  is  mist  in 
decay  ^ 

This  would  I have  you  remember  in 
remembering  me : 

That  which  seems  most  feeble  and  be- 
wildered in  you  is  the  strongest  and  most 
determined. 

Is  it  not  your  breath  that  has  erected 
and  hardened  the  structure  of  your  bones 

And  is  it  not  a dream  which  none  of 
you  remember  having  dreamt,  that  builded 
your  city  and  fashioned  all  there  is  in  it^ 

Could  you  but  see  the  tides  of  that 
breath  you  would  cease  to  see  all  else, 

And  if  you  could  hear  the  whispering  of 
the  dream  you  would  hear  no  other  sound. 

But  you  do  not  see,  nor  do  you  hear, 
and  it  is  well. 

The  veil  that  clouds  your  eyes  shall  be 
lifted  by  the  hands  that  wove  it. 

And  the  clay  that  fills  your  ears  shall 
be  pierced  by  those  fingers  that  kneaded 
it. 


103 


And  you  shall  see. 

And  you  shall  hear. 

Yet  you  shall  not  deplore  having  known 
blindness,  nor  regret  having  been  deaf. 

For  in  that  day  you  shall  know  the 
hidden  purposes  in  all  things, 

And  you  shall  bless  darkness  as  you 
would  bless  light. 

After  saying  these  things  he  looked 
about  him,  and  he  saw  the  pilot  of  his  ship 
standing  by  the  helm  and  gazing  now  at 
the  full  sails  and  now  at  the  distance. 

And  he  said : 

Patient,  over  patient,  is  the  captain  of 
my  ship. 

The  wind  blows,  and  restless  are  the 
sails; 

Even  the  rudder  begs  direction; 

Yet  quietly  my  captain  awaits  my  si- 
lence. 

And  these  my  mariners,  who  have  heard 
the  choir  of  the  greater  sea,  they  too  have 
heard  me  patiently. 

104 


Now  they  shall  wait  no  longer. 

I am  ready. 

The  stream  has  reached  the  sea,  and 
once  more  the  great  mother  holds  her  son 
against  her  breast. 

Fare  you  well,  people  of  Orphalese. 

This  day  has  ended. 

It  is  closing  upon  us  even  as  the  water- 
lily  upon  its  own  tomorrow. 

What  was  given  us  here  we  shall  keep, 

And  if  it  suffices  not,  then  again  must 
we  come  together  and  together  stretch  our 
hands  unto  the  giver. 

Forget  not  that  I shall  come  back  to  you. 

A little  while,  and  my  longing  shall 
gather  dust  and  foam  for  another  body. 

A little  while,  a moment  of  rest  upon 
the  wind,  and  another  woman  shall  bear 
me. 

Farewell  to  you  and  the  youth  I have 
spent  with  you. 

It  was  but  yesterday  we  met  in  a dream. 

105 


You  have  sung  to  me  in  my  aloneness, 
and  I of  your  longings  have  built  a tower 
in  the  sky. 

But  now  our  sleep  has  fled  and  our 
dream  is  over,  and  it  is  no  longer  dawn. 

The  noontide  is  upon  us  and  our  half 
waking  has  turned  to  fuller  day,  and  we 
must  part. 

If  in  the  twilight  of  memory  we  should 
meet  once  more,  we  shall  speak  again  to- 
gether and  you  shall  sing  to  me  a deeper 
song. 

And  if  our  hands  should  meet  in  an- 
other dream  we  shall  build  another  tower 
in  the  sky. 

So  saying  he  made  a signal  to  the  sea- 
men, and  straightway  they  weighed  an- 
chor and  cast  the  ship  loose  from  its  moor- 
ings, and  they  moved  eastward. 

And  a cry  came  from  the  people  as  from 
a single  heart,  and  it  rose  into  the  dusk 
and  was  carried  out  over  the  sea  like  a 
great  trumpeting. 

Only  Almitra  was  silent,  gazing  after 
106 


t'T'’”,  L': 


■Vr 


the  ship  until  it  had  vanished  into  the 
mist. 

And  when  all  the  people  were  dispersed 
she  still  stood  alone  upon  the  sea-wall, 
remembering  in  her  heart  his  saying, 

"A  little  while,  a moment  of  rest  upon 
the  wind,  and  another  woman  shall  bear 


A NOTE  ON  THE  TYPE 
IN  WHICH  THIS  BOOK  IS  SET 


• • 

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This  hook  is  set  {on  the  Linotype)  in  Original  Old  Style. 
Of  the  history  of  it  very  little  is  known;  in  practically 
its  present  form,  it  has  been  used  for  many  years  for  fine 
hook  and  magazine  work.  Original  Old  Style  possesses 
in  a high  degree  those  two  qualities  by  which  a book  type 
must  be  judged;  first  legibility,  and  second,  the  ability  to 
impart  a definite  character  to  a page  without  intruding 
itself  upon  the  reader  s consciousness. 


PRINTED  AND  BOUND  BY  THE  PLIMPTON  PRESS, 
NORWOOD,  MASS. 


i.'' 
'*  ; 


S' 


X.. 


OUKi  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 


2031 


